Read an Excerpt
The Fall of the House of Forbes
The Inside Story of the Collapse of a Media Empire
By Stewart Pinkerton St. Martin's Press
Copyright © 2011 Stewart Pinkerton
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4299-8774-5
CHAPTER 1
DEATH IN THE FAMILY
To enter Malcolm Forbes's second-floor bedroom at Timberfield, his forty-acre estate deep in the horse country of New Jersey, was to experience a surprisingly cold, industrial-like space, somewhat jarring and out of place within the traditional Colonial interior of the white-paint-over-brick main house: gray Italian granite interior walls, leather upholstered ceilings, mirrors, and enough chrome, a visitor once noted, "to plate a '57 Caddie."
It was there on Saturday, February 24, 1990, an unusually mild mid-winter day, that Dennis Stewart, the estate's caretaker, found the iconic publishing executive on his bed, unresponsive, "asleep" far longer than he should have been. Stewart must have feared the worst. Was it a heart attack? A stroke? Or something else?
Only hours before, Malcolm's driver, Kurt Shaffer, a former New Jersey state trooper, had dropped him off after picking him up early that morning at Newark airport. Forbes had flown in overnight from London where he'd hosted a bridge tournament at his home near the Thames, Old Battersea House, pitting some members of Parliament against a group of celebrity American executives, including Larry Tisch, Milton Petrie, and Alan "Ace" Greenberg. He'd come in on the Capitalist Tool, his private Boeing 727 — tail No. N60FM — configured to seat only twenty-four instead of the usual 181.
Painted in Forbes's favorite colors — money green and gold — the Tool's lush interior by Jon Bannenberg, the Australian-born yacht designer who did some of the work on the QE2, included plush, cream-colored leather swivel chairs, an L-shaped banquette, a mirrored bathroom with a marble sink, and a stateroom for Malcolm. There was a fully stocked bar and galley, a steward to anticipate and cater to the boss's every need.
Despite the alarming condition in which he found the Forbes editor-in-chief, Stewart did not call 911. That would have dispatched an ambulance from 29 Rescue, the Far Hills-Bernardsville First Aid Squad, located just seven minutes away on Route 202 near Woodland Road. From Timberfield it would have been perhaps a ten-to-fifteen-minute sprint to the closest hospital, Somerset Medical Center.
Instead, he dialed the number of Forbes's friend and long-time personal physician, Dr. Oscar Kruesi, an internist whose practice was nearby in Bernardsville. Dr. Kruesi left his office immediately and before long was negotiating the winter ruts in the dirt portion of Old Dutch Road, turning right at number 95, into the familiar driveway. He'd been to Timberfield before, of course, and had always enjoyed bantering with his famous patient. But this time, given the urgency in Dennis Stewart's voice, he had a bad feeling. Dr. Kruesi parked his car and hurried to the front door, which he opened without knocking. Stewart was waiting for him. Together they climbed the curved stairway leading up to the second floor and Malcolm's bedroom.
Dr. Kruesi's foreboding proved to be correct. The accepted protocol for pronouncing someone dead is to find cardiac, respiratory, and neurological functions all absent. Dr. Kruesi found no pulse in Malcolm's carotid artery, no heartbeat or breathing from a stethoscope, and presumably, no arousal response to a deep sterna rub. There was nothing for him to do but to pronounce that Malcolm Stevenson Forbes had passed on to his last, most exotic destination. "Mr. Forbes had obviously died in his sleep. He had died very peacefully apparently," Dr. Kruesi told The New York Times.
More phone calls. To the family, of course. And to Frank E. Campbell, the iconic Manhattan funeral home that for decades has performed its last rites on the rich and famous, including Rudolph Valentino, Judy Garland, John Lennon, Tennessee Williams, and Jackie Onassis. Stewart then phoned a Forbes colleague who was scheduled to visit Timberfield later that day. "We have a situation here," he said. "Mr. Forbes has passed away."
Forbes's remains were removed and prepared for cremation at Campbell's facilities. There was no call to the medical examiner, no autopsy. The family held a private service two days later at the Church of St. John on the Mountain, not far from Timberfield, followed by a public service of thanksgiving for Malcolm's life on Thursday, March 1, at St. Bartholomew's on Park Avenue. Packing the pews were Forbes employees (given priority seating), a contingent of Hell's Angels, and a galaxy of executives, politicians, and celebrities, including, of course, Elizabeth Taylor, Malcolm's frequent companion, Richard Nixon, Barbara Walters, Katherine Graham, David Rockefeller, Rupert Murdoch, and former New York mayor Ed Koch.
The family sought proceeds from Mass Mutual and other insurers on what was later reported to be $100 million in life insurance policies, payouts that were to go toward estate taxes and which a former Forbes financial executive confirms were held up, though the executive cannot explain why. Mass Mutual declined all comment, citing confidentiality. But a former Forbes senior editor, writing about the matter for another publication six years later, reported that the insurers balked at the payouts because of "curious circumstances" surrounding Malcolm's death. Citing a confidential settlement agreed to by the family after "many months of quiet behind-the-scenes wrangling," this writer said, the payments were finally made, but for far less than what the family sought, about fifty to seventy-five cents on the dollar.
Dr. Kruesi, who died in 2010, personally signed the death certificate. The official cause was heart failure, which the press dutifully reported. Yet, even after all that time, there are questions. For years, there have been whispers and speculation within the corridors of Forbes that Malcolm had taken his own life, a tragic scenario two former employees very close to the family now affirm. In his 1990 biography of Forbes, author Christopher Winans noted that after so many brushes with death on his motorcycles and in his balloons, Malcolm's peaceful death in bed defied the odds: "It seemed almost too perfect to be an accident." In retrospect, Malcolm's $2.5 million seventieth birthday bash in Morocco only months before was a fitting, grand good-bye to the world: The standing ovation. The last curtain call. The big finish.
Forbes wanted to be buried in Laucala, a beautiful three-thousand-acre island in the Fiji archipelago reportedly first spotted by Captain Bligh of the Bounty. Forbes bought it in 1972 for $1 million and developed it into a small, exclusive resort, complete with a twin engine Piper Chieftain called Capitalist Tool Too to ferry guests on and off the island. Forbes marketed Laucala as the "ultimate South Pacific getaway for those into extraordinary deep-sea fishing, scuba diving, or for those who simply want to live the life of Gauguin without the torment."
Forbes hoped that his burial there would prevent his sons from ever selling it. He even hired an architect to design a mausoleum. His ashes did go to Fiji, but that turned out to be just a layover. A few years later, the sons dug him up, reburied him in Scotland next to their grandfather B. C. Forbes, then put the island on the block for $10.5 million. Former Beatle George Harrison was one of those who looked at it.
Laucala eventually sold in 2003 for much less than $10.5 million, to Dietrich Mateschitz, head of the Red Bull energy drink company. But the transaction was delayed by the sound of jungle drums: restless natives, protesting government policies, staged a coup, briefly taking tourists hostage at several Fiji resorts, including Laucala, no doubt conjuring back at the home office New Yorker cartoon images of Forbes guests simmering in large black pots emblazoned with the company logo.
Though the uprising was directed against the Fiji government, possibly the Laucala hostage-takers were also protesting Forbes's abrupt removal, since he had built for the natives a church and a school — perhaps in compensation for uprooting them from their beachfront homes so he could charge $700 a night for his own guests.
In either case, the uprising was not a good omen. Malcolm's death would touch off a series of cascading changes that would ultimately unseat the family from day-to-day management control and dilute the value of a storied brand — profound events that would have appalled Malcolm's father, Bertie Charles Forbes, the Scottish immigrant who founded the magazine that bore his name in 1917. In a private letter written in 1949 describing how his estate would be split up after his death, B.C. wrote, "Any sons who inherit a profitable and going business and fail to make a success of it, do not deserve to succeed in making headway in life."
But to understand the fall, we need to look in some depth at the rise, and especially at the unique life and style, of Malcolm Forbes.
CHAPTER 2
"SPARKLING NAUGHTY BOY"
What's unnatural sex? Having none.
— Malcolm Forbes
To those attending Malcolm's standing-room-only service of thanksgiving at St. Bart's, the tribute that seemed to resonate the most came from second-oldest son, Bob, whose longish brown hair caressed the back collars of his striking bespoke pinstripes, always set off by a dashing pocket square.
"He was so many things to so many of us," Bob said, "boss, bon vivant, raconteur, happiest millionaire, leader of the pack, source, mentor, friend, super this, mega that, father, grandfather, father-in-law, uncle, cousin, and sparkling naughty boy."
What exactly did he mean by "sparkling naughty boy"?
Rightly or wrongly, many in the church interpreted the reference as a tacit admission of the side to Malcolm that was widely known but never conceded or discussed by the family. To anyone who knew anything about his private life, it was a given that Malcolm Forbes was conflicted about his sexuality. "I've slept with women, but guys are more fun," he once confided to a friend. As prelude to a kiss, it wasn't unusual to spot Malcolm playing footsie with a handsome young man at a discreet table in one of his favorite downtown eateries. If one is to believe those who were seduced — or at least propositioned — by him, his increasingly indiscreet liaisons were numerous and widespread.
Which of course raised the question — never answered — of whether at his death, Malcolm had AIDS and feared the ghastly and certain death that awaited anyone with the virus in those days before HIV protease inhibitors. Shortly after he died, Outweek featured a cover piece entitled "The Secret Gay Life of Malcolm Forbes," and the sensationalist tabloid Globe screamed in a classic bait-and-switch headline: "Malcolm Forbes Had AIDS & Killed Himself: His Gay Lover Tells All." The story quoted a twenty-two-year-old bodybuilder who alleged multiple oral sex and sodomy encounters with Malcolm in the town house at $1,500 per "date." Of course, in the actual story, the bodybuilder said nothing about Malcolm having AIDS or wanting to kill himself, though he did indicate Malcolm thought he might have cancer.
The mainstream press generally steered clear of the whole issue of Malcolm's sexual doings, but in December 1990, Elizabeth Taylor bristled to People: "It's nobody's business what Malcolm's sexual preferences were. It's nobody's concern. I respected him, which means I respected his choices, all the way around. We knew each other very well."
For Malcolm's "invitees" to the town house, "drinks" usually consisted of tumblers of vodka and grapefruit juice, followed by a "Would you like to join me?" stroll toward the sauna before dinner, typically passing through what staffers called the "porn room," a space filled with elaborate oil paintings of homoerotica in Old Masters style, depicting naked revelers engaged in various activities. One featured a disturbing "group whipping" of a fellow strapped down on a table. (The whippee did not appear to be enjoying it.)
One evening, after the warm-up vodkas, Malcolm told a handsome young editorial staffer that he was going to "freshen up" before going out to dinner and suggested that the young man use the time to take a sauna, presumably alone. But it wasn't long before Malcolm appeared through the mist, naked and fully aroused. "How about a smooch and a hug?" he asked.
Now what do I do? the young staffer thought in panic. This is the guy who owns the place, for chrissake.
When the young man demurred, Malcolm asked if he could "relieve himself." In front of the horrified employee, he then proceeded to masturbate.
Oh my God, it's all over. Now he's going to fire me.
Afterward, the young staffer felt he had no choice but to join Malcolm for what turned out to be a delicious but awkward meal at a fancy uptown restaurant. The next morning, Malcolm was waiting at the security desk when the extremely hungover employee arrived. Uh-oh. This is it. He's going to can me right here. But Malcolm was chipper and jaunty, giving a big wave to the staffer, acting as if nothing had happened.
It was a routine Malcolm regularly followed, sometimes handing employees $100 "for cab fare" afterward. One night, Malcolm dropped a staffer off at his apartment via motorcycle and handed him $200 "for being my bodyguard tonight." Was it generosity or simply a bribe to keep things quiet? Occasionally, Malcolm would suggest that a young staffer join the elite "Balloon Ascension Team," which worked Malcolm's big events, went on exotic trips, and, claims one former employee who declined Malcolm's advances, sometimes performed other services for the boss.
Once escorting a group of Japanese businessmen around the edit floor, Malcolm spotted a handsome young man he hadn't seen before. He interrupted his tour and came over. "Excuse me, are you new here?" Malcolm asked. "I always like to take new employees out for a drink." A few days later, in the town house, Malcolm said, "I'm having vodka and grapefruit juice, care to join me?" "Sure." The usual script followed.
Explaining the need for a hot tub soak after a long day's work, Malcolm excused himself, but reappeared shortly wearing only a bathrobe. He called the restaurant to reserve a table for two, using his "cover" name, Stevenson. Then, approaching his guest, he said, "Would you care to join me?" The new hire demurred, but Malcolm persisted, approaching even closer. Grabbing the young man's hand, he turned the prior question into a request: "I'd really like you to join me." Again, the answer was no, but Malcolm appeared not to mind. The two had a pleasant dinner, as if nothing had happened.
In those days before workplace sexual harassment and a "hostile work environment" were taken seriously, Malcolm could get away with it. But the behavior was clearly predatory and unnerving to employees — as well as to his oldest son. One evening, a first-time town house "invitee" was washing up in a ground-floor restroom when Steve walked in. "Hey, Steve!" the young man said cheerily. "Guess what? I'm having dinner with your dad tonight!" Forbes's smile turned to a grimace. He went into a stall and slammed the door.
What was that about? the young man thought.
Not again, thought Steve.
CHAPTER 3
"THE BARNUM OF BARNUMS"
Malcolm's mischief and the office gossip about it simply added to his mystique as an intriguing larger-than-life character. Oh, that's just Malcolm being Malcolm. He's really just a little kid dressed up in pinstripes having a good time being naughty. He's just having fun.
That's the way he came across, and for the most part, Malcolm was beloved as a boss. Employees felt they were part of a family, and to a certain extent, they were. Malcolm knew most of them by name, and called each of them on their birthdays, always making sure that a corsage or boutonniere was waiting for them at their desks that day. Malcolm would grant interest-free loans to those in financial distress and forgave them when he died.
There was free medical coverage. And long before 401(k)s became fashionable, the Forbes Thrift Plan made many employees very well off. Staffers put up to 10 percent of their salaries into the plan. For every dollar an employee contributed, Forbes put in $2.50. It was not unusual for long-time Forbesies to retire as millionaires.
There was a canteen that served hot breakfasts and lunches, but in a bow to Scottish practicality, there was no place to sit: Take your sandwich back to your desk and get to work. (But perhaps not on those days when a former chef was seen relieving himself in the men's room still wearing his latex prep gloves. "It doesn't get much better than that," says a top executive who now prefers to get his sandwiches elsewhere.) A varsity gymnast at Princeton who knew the value of having healthy, fit employees, Malcolm put in a fully equipped gym on the top floor of 60 Fifth Avenue. There were panoramic city views, televisions, and an in-house trainer to customize workout routines. It was, of course, a free perk, as were Forbes "money green and gold" umbrellas from the security desk whenever it rained.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from The Fall of the House of Forbes by Stewart Pinkerton. Copyright © 2011 Stewart Pinkerton. Excerpted by permission of St. Martin's Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
